


The Christmas Cherry

by TheScribbler_CMB



Category: North and South (UK TV), North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell, North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Christmas Smut, Christmas Tree, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Fun, Love, Loving Marriage, Playful Sex, Romance, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28295904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScribbler_CMB/pseuds/TheScribbler_CMB
Summary: As Margaret hunts for a lost treasure on Christmas Day, her loving husband is both amused and allured by her new dress, which is as red as a cherry. With time to spare before their guests arrive, what can they get up to? With a little bit of mild smut and plenty of fluff, this Christmas one-shot borrowed from my Thornton Tales collection offers a bit of festive fun.
Relationships: Margaret Hale & John Thornton, Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	The Christmas Cherry

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of my Thornton Tales series and also connects to my North and South retelling, A Mother’s Final Gift.
> 
> Please note, this chapter contains mild smut.

_THE CHRISTMAS CHERRY_

_PART 1 OF 1_

Margaret heaved a sigh as she found herself down on her hands and knees crawling beneath the Christmas tree.

It was the third time that day.

And she had a niggling feeling that it would not be the last.

‘Oh!’ she grumbled, her hair getting twisted in yet another branch, its prickly fingers combing through her tresses and yanking at the strands, causing her scalp to wince.

This was certainly not how she had hoped to spend her Christmas Day, as she had much more pressing matters to attend to, such as priming the household for lunch and playing the role of serene hostess. What was more, she was not convinced that the Lord would approve of her scurrying around the ground like a mouse, for if she were to be on her knees at all, surely it was more reverent on this blessed day to be knelt in pious prayer. However, the Lord was not in a position to judge, for even although he had taken the weight of the world’s sins on his shoulders, he knew nothing about the trials and tribulations of having four Thornton rascals to contend with.

Margaret had been forced to scramble around like this because her children had developed a rather maddening tendency of hiding odds and ends under the tree. In their delightful innocence, they had enthusiastically taken to the concept of placing items beneath the grand pine, as was tradition. All the same, unfortunately for their poor mother, their zeal for the ritual had extended well beyond the giving of presents. Indeed, they now hid everything they could get their mischievous little hands on, from toys, to food, to shoes, to their grandma’s sewing, to the cook’s rolling pin, all the way to their father’s important mill documents. By the time Margaret had retrieved all the filched objects from their treasure trove of accumulated knickknacks, her magpie children had hidden just about everything imaginable. She half expected to find twelve drummers drumming, seven swans a-swimming, five gold rings, two turtle doves, and more than one partridge along with its infamous pear tree.

However, now, much to her distress, they had concealed the bracelet John had given her last year, a gift that she cherished more than any of her worldly possessions and was not willing to lose, hence her most inelegant position on all fours.

Margaret had been fond of the modest bangle that she had formerly worn, she still was, but now it sat in a box on top of her wardrobe, well out of harm’s way. It had been her grandmother’s and she used to love it when the old lady included it in her ensemble, so on the woman’s demise, it had been bestowed upon Margaret as a special bequest. Margaret had not worn it always, but she had tended to put it on when she felt she needed the moral certitude and strength of character that had been innate to her favourite grandmama. That is why she had decided to wear it that time Mr Thornton had first come to tea at the Hale house. It was because Margaret somehow instinctively knew that she needed courage and conviction to be around the man that she did not yet understand, but a man nonetheless, who made her heart beat in a way it never had before. In her naivety, she had not known it that night, but even then, her heart had already begun to stir for him, waking into life, spreading its wings, and readying to fall utterly and completely in love with John Thornton.

Nevertheless, a few years ago, Fanny’s daughter, Gabriella, had found it when she was teetering about the house and had quite carelessly banged it so hard and so frequently off various surfaces, that it had been dented and damaged beyond repair. Margaret had not been cross with the child, but secretly, her heart had broken, for she had so loved the wristlet that held many sentimental memories of a family long gone. However, her disappointment had been nothing in comparison to John’s, as her husband was particularly fond of the trinket, for it contained many happy reminiscences for him, ones of a charming young woman pouring him tea, while the mesmerised master watched with fascination.

It was a month later on Christmas Eve, that John had found his wife and restlessly ushered her into his study. There, he had nervously presented her with a small box adorned with silken ribbons of red and green. He had watched anxiously as she had unfastened it, his eyes flitting between hers and the package. When Margaret had opened it, she was not sure what she had been expecting, but what she found made her heart halt and her soul flutter. In that instant, she could have wept with appreciation, for it was the loveliest gift she had ever received in all her twenty-four years.

It was a delicate bracelet, the most beautiful ornament she had ever seen. It was interwoven with gold and silver metal, the two materials winding around each other in a secure embrace, and she could easily guess who this intimate intertwining was intended to symbolise. The bangle was embedded with a row of discreet gemstones, each a dazzling rainbow that glinted brilliantly in the light. Each one represented a month in the year and each precious stone stood as a proud emblem for a member of their beloved family. Diamond for Margaret’s birthday. Ruby for John’s. Garnet for Maria’s. Amethyst for Richard and Daniel’s. And Tanzanite for Nicholas. She could see that the amulets had been arranged in such a way that more could be added in the future, in the happy event that God granted them the gift of more babies, which of course, he did. One day, the bracelet would contain sapphire for Elizabeth, opal for Fred and Hannie, and emerald for George. Eight jewels for eight tiny and ardently treasured Thorntons.

However, there was more, for in the centre, there rested a bigger stone which was encircled by the others, proudly watching over the rest. It was aquamarine for March; the month John and Margaret had wed, the month their relationship, their union, their sacred bond had been blessed by a holy trinity of spiritual, legal and romantic sanctification. It was from this enduring rock that the joy and hope of all others were born.

Margaret was not a materialistic sort of woman and she owned very few adornments. Still, this was something quite exquisite and the little girl in her felt giddy at the sight of such a pretty thing. Her husband knew that she was not one for ostentatious baubles, so he rarely bought her anything, instead preferring to show his love in other ways, more meaningful ways, with his words of affirmation, his time, his acts of service, his physical touch, and his unconditional acceptance and admiration of her independent spirit. All the same, Margaret knew that this offering must have cost him a small fortune, but its worth did not depend on its worldly price, but rather its infinite value was bound up in the labour of love that had gone into its design. It was a token of a marriage, one forged not of gold or silver, but of loyalty, laughter, and love everlasting.

Turning the fine item over in her hands, her eyes fell upon the elegant inscription, which read:

_‘To M, with all my love, from J. There it goes, again!’_

Margaret had felt tears trickling down her cheeks and at first, John had panicked, worrying that his dear wife did not like it, that he had somehow upset her. He had taken her by the shoulders, wiped her tears away, and kissed her forehead, muttering that he had known that he would get it all wrong. But she had shook her head and enveloped her arms around him, nestling herself against his broad chest. She had sobbed into his shirt and told him how much she loved it and, more importantly, how much she loved him. They had stood there like that for some time, him whispering soothing words of reassurance in her ear and stroking her hair. At long last, he had asked if he could place it on her arm, which she agreed to, and with a schoolboy grin, he had slid it over her wrist and down to her elbow. John had lifted the limb and with glorious gentleness, he had trailed a line of soft kisses from her fingertips all the way to her shoulder, his moist lips anointing her with his devotion. With a shy smile, he had suggested that they go and have some tea and laughing in turn, Margaret promised to thank him properly by preparing it, so that her husband could sit back and watch with enthralment as his gift slid up and down his enchanting wife’s arm. Needless to say, he drank more tea that day than any man had ever consumed tea before.

As Margaret continued her search, she reached out and patted around the floor, her mission rendered challenging by the immense volume of her skirts, which seemed to billow around her like a balloon. Eventually, her palm fell on something that had been concealed beneath a parcel wrapped in brown paper and indigo thread. ‘Ah-ha,’ she exclaimed. Uncovering it, she victoriously lifted her bracelet into the air and beamed with triumph at her discovery. ‘Got you!’ she said with a satisfied hum, her hand retaining a tight grasp around her trophy.

However, at that moment, she was interrupted by the noise of a gruff cough behind her. It was the reverberation of someone announcing their presence and she knew exactly who it was, for she would recognise that deep timbre anywhere. It was the first sound she heard when she woke up every morning and the last sound she heard before she went to sleep every night. 

Margaret startled and hit her head on a bough. ‘Ouch!’ she yelped, massaging her crown.

She struggled to her feet, but in the process, she tripped on her extensive skirts and her sleeves caught on various twigs, making her escape anything but graceful. When she eventually emerged, she was scruffy, dishevelled, and riotously unkempt. Her gown was covered in pine needles, her hair had a branch of holly poking out of it, and her face was smeared with flecks of green, but how that had happened, she was not quite sure.

As the mistress of the house stood looking like an undignified ragamuffin, she found herself facing a rather stern looking man, one who was annoyingly immaculate. That is, he was not stern really, but he was so stunned by the scene before him, that he stood stock-still, watching her with a stony expression of inquisitiveness. Still, it was not long before a poorly disguised smirk began to creep across his serious face and his eyes twinkled good-humouredly. With an expression of astonished amusement, the man let his gaze rake over Margaret, taking in her unruly appearance from head to toe. Frowning, she had the distinct feeling that he was mocking her, no doubt roaring with laughter on the inside. Margaret cleared her throat, raised her chin into the air imperiously, and began to dust herself off, her hands rearranging her hair and straightening her skirts.

‘Dare I ask?’ he said at last, his rich burr laced with mirth.

‘No, you do not!’ she replied haughtily, attempting to wrench the holly from her locks. ‘Oh!’ she flinched as it got stuck. However, the more she tugged, the more knotted it became, and she found herself in a tangle with flora, a tussle that she was not winning. ‘Oww!’

John chuckled heartily and walked over to his wife. He lifted his hand and started to gradually ease the stem from her hair, tutting at the jagged edges that seemed to have wound themselves around an array of russet ringlets.

‘It suits you, you know,’ he teased, before finally extraditing the offending twig. He took his palm and slapped her down, ridding her of her excess foliage, so that she no longer looked like a woodland nymph. ‘You know, you are so covered in nature, perhaps we should dispense with the tree and hang the decorations on you instead,’ he suggested candidly. ‘You may not be quite so green, but you are just as bonnie.’

‘Behave yourself, Mr Thornton,’ she cautioned coyly, a faint smile coiling her lips, ‘Or else there will be no figgy pudding for you, my boy,’ she warned with a playful pout.

John gasped theatrically and then leaned down to kiss her so very softly, his lips melting into her own. ‘Well then, I shall be on my very best behaviour, Nutmeg,’ he promised, his mouth skimming her neck and his tongue lightly licking her with the briefest of strokes, sending a delectable tingle down her spine.

Margaret chuckled when he called her by that name, for it was a private joke between husband and wife. It had all started on their first Christmas together six years ago. At this point, John had already begun to call her Meg more often than he called her Margaret, so she had become quite accustomed to the affectionate abbreviation. Nevertheless, on that Christmas Eve, they had retired to bed, and after her husband’s frisky mouth had wandered across her body, he had stopped, furrowed his brow, and licked her most deliberately. He had then paused, thought, and then done it again, his tongue swirling in his mouth as he analysed the flavour of his wife’s skin.

_‘Do you taste of…nutmeg?’_ he asked in bewilderment.

Margaret had scoffed at first, deeming him as mad as a hatter. But then, she had guffawed and replied: _‘Oh yes, I suppose I do. I was baking baskets of festive provisions for the workers today and I used a variety of seasonings. I spilt a bottle of nutmeg all over myself and must not have cleaned it off properly_ ,’ she explained.

John had grinned, rolled on top of her and groaned with gratification. _‘I like it,’_ he had decreed huskily. _‘My Meg, my scrumptious Nutmeg, you’re just too delicious not to eat!’_ he had growled in her ear, before devouring every last morsel of her, his tongue attentive in its lapping.

Margaret wandered over to the window and gazed out at the glistening scene before her, the snow glazing the yard in a coat of ice, the snowflakes sparkling like scattered shards of glass. She smiled at the sight that welcomed her, for it was enough to make her maternal heart burst with happiness. Outside, were her four children, all playing merrily in the snow that cosseted the mill grounds in a cove of white. As they ran, and hopped, and skipped, Margaret felt her spirit sing, for it was the most divine sight in all the world, to see her babes cheerful, contented, confident, and carefree. She wished she could have been out there with them, but she still had some of their presents to sort, and she had found that this task was much better managed when they were distracted and out of the way.

Maria was five years old, her chestnut curls cascading down her back, her rosy cheeks reddened by the nippy air. She fell back against the snow and extended her arms and legs rapidly, her friction creating a snow angel. Margaret could see a rather larger angel near to the little girl’s and guessed that this belonged to John, as he had not long come indoors from joining his children in some festive frivolity.

The twins, Richard and Daniel, were now four, one the spitting image of John and the other taking more after their mother. They were chasing about like hooligans and hooting as they crushed the snow together with their gloved hands into balls, then throwing them at each other, the other ducking and diving to avoid the onslaught. Margaret wondered if John had joined in with this horseplay, for if he had, the poor man would have been besieged by the ambush of the boys, who would have relished the idea of hurling frosty catapults at their papa. There was no question that the lads idolised him, but then again, they were little scamps who still enjoyed aggravating their old man.

Nicholas had just turned one, not even two weeks ago. With the help of Dixon who held his arms, he was wading through the snow, his strides wobbly as he was not quite walking yet, but his parents waited with anticipation, as they sensed that his first independent steps would be any day now.

The family dog, Ruff, was bounding about between them all, his loud barks, wagging tail, and lolling tongue a sign of his elation at all the fun. His black coat was a striking contrast to the snow, which he spun around in and tried to gnaw, but he soon sneezed at the coldness of it and decided to stick with chewing his bones from Cook, his favourite person in all the world, not least because she constantly smelt of food. Still, it seemed that he was not too sure of the snowmen, as he kept yapping at them, but after a few sniffs, he soon welcomed them into the fold and frolicked around them blithely.

As she watched this blissful spectacle, Margaret felt her husband come up behind her and wrap his arms around his wife, squeezing her snugly, his chin resting on the top of her head.

‘God, I love them!’ he muttered as he too gazed contentedly at his brood. ‘When are we having another?’ he asked, his arms tightening around her waist, his nose nuzzled in her hair. ‘I am finding that I am rather fond of our puppies.’

Margaret giggled, for she adored the way her little one’s doting father referred to their bairns as pups, a lark that had all started with Ruff many moons ago.

‘I do not know, John,’ she joshed, her body swaying in his grasp. ‘I shall leave that decision up to my husband, he is the master around here after all, or so I am told,’ she teased flirtatiously.

As John smirked, he let his eyes ramble over his wife, and he stepped back to inspect and appreciate her more thoroughly. She was wearing a vivid red gown, so bright that he could have mistaken her for a strawberry. It was unusually colourful for Margaret, as she generally wore plain or pastel shades, preferring not to draw attention to herself. However, he sincerely liked this addition to her wardrobe, as the cheerfulness of the cloth embodied her warm personality and the joyfulness of the season. Besides, it had a most pleasing cut and certainly allowed her husband to admire his wife from every angle.

‘Is this a new dress?’ he queried, surprised, for Margaret was never one to splurge money on herself, not when it could be put to better use serving those less fortunate than her. John always found her charitable nature endearing, for Margaret was as frugal as a miser when it came to her own needs, despite the fact that they were as rich as creases, and she only ever loosened her purse strings when it helped to bring comfort to her family or the poor. That was one of the reasons he had bought her the bracelet, for his beautiful bride hardly had anything that she could truly call her own. And Margaret, his Margaret, deserved beautiful things, but alas, his humble lass never asked for anything.

‘Yes,’ Margaret sighed. ‘Oh, do not mock me, please!’ she begged, hiding her face in her hands. ‘Fanny insisted. We went shopping last month, as you know, and I could not put her off, she kept pestering me to get something new, complaining that my clothes were terribly out of fashion. She even went as far as to say that it was a disgrace for the Master of Marlborough Mill’s wife to be dressed like a bumpkin!’ she griped.

‘Aww, that’s not fair! I like my bumpkin,’ John grinned, his nose caressing the back of her neck.

‘At any rate,’ Margaret went on, ‘Your sister stipulated that she and I were both to get something, _and_ , to make it worse, she was desperate for us to both wear the same dress for Christmas day! Can you credit it, John?’ she blustered.

‘We shall be like twins! Although, mine is significantly less frilly and fussy than the pattern she chose for herself, thank goodness. But still, I fear I look like an overgrown cherry!’ she protested, swathing her arms around her waist in mortification, her cheeks turning so red that they complemented the fabric of her garb.

John chuckled and pulled her close. ‘I like it,’ he whispered against her lips, his hot breath making the hairs on her arm stand up.

‘Do you?’ she asked quietly, her voice hesitant. ‘Really?’

‘Aye, I do,’ he confirmed, his tone tinged with a wolfish lilt. Margaret was not sure, but she had a feeling she could detect something poking into her from her husband’s midriff.

‘I think you look lovely, darling, truly,’ he soothed. ‘I like all your dresses; you always look so damn fine. It is most distracting, I assure you, for how is a man supposed to concentrate on his work when he knows that such a goddess is waiting for him at home?’ he mumbled against her shoulder, his stubble gently scratching her exposed skin.

He gently coaxed her away from the window and drew her into his firm embrace.

‘I am the luckiest man alive to have such a beautiful wife and I do not know how a grumpy old bear like me came to deserve such a pretty partner in life. You quite take my breath away, still, to this day, and I think you always shall. When I am near you, I feel like the hapless John Thornton of days gone by, pining for the love of the beguiling Miss Hale,’ he murmured, his eyes burning into her with a smouldering intensity that made her cheeks flush.

‘But I do like this dress, sweetheart, it is different, it suits you, it is aptly festive, and besides,’ he added, his hand wandering upwards, ‘It is very pleasing on the eye,’ he finished, his fingers skimming beneath her breast.

Margaret giggled. ‘John, behave!’ she scolded. ‘Honestly, husband, you are insatiable,’ she tutted. ‘You talk such nonsense! I used to think you were a sensible man, Sir, but now I find that my Mr Thornton talks nothing but twaddle.’

‘Can a man not compliment his woman?’ John disputed. ‘Tell me, Meg, can I not take a bite of this cherry?’ he requested, one hand plucking at the fastenings at the back of her dress and the other gliding across her bottom.

Margaret giggled again. ‘Do we even have time?’ she checked. ‘Your mother will return with the Watsons in an hour. And the children─’

‘The children are fine, Margaret! Look,’ he said, leading her back to the window, ‘They are happy, and Dixon is with them, they will be as right as rain. We need not be long,’ he persuaded, his gaze penetrating her in that way that made Margaret swoon.

‘Besides, Fanny will be so busy telling everyone about the tasteless new necklace that Watson has given her, that I doubt she will notice if we are here or not. We will be quick,’ he rumbled in her ear, and Margaret gasped, for she knew what that implied. When John said, “ _quick,”_ he meant that he would employ every ounce of his strength and stamina to satisfy her. On those occasions, their couplings were brief and efficient, but certainly no less blissful and euphoric.

‘What do you say, Nutmeg? Can your husband nibble you?’ he asked, before playfully and most scandalously dropping the stick of holly between her breasts, the twig clenched between her cleavage. It was wanton, he knew, but he just prayed that his wife would not be offended, but rather, aroused. 

However, John was relieved to discover that it was the latter.

A moment later, Margaret began to run along the corridor, and found that she was the one dragging her husband behind her. They rushed up the stairs and stumbled from one step to the next, as they were preoccupied with kissing and laughing. In a frantic and frenzied fumbling, their hands explored each other, their fingers already loosening his cravat and tearing at the buttons of her gown.

With their eyes shut, they could only hope that none of the servants saw them. But then again, they did not really care if they were caught, as they were married after all, and they would darn well behave like infatuated fools if they wanted to.

When they eventually blundered into the bedroom, John slammed the door closed and pushed Margaret against it, his lips pressed firmly against her own, his tongue sliding down her throat. Panting with desire, he turned sharply and made for the bed, but found to his dismay that it was covered in odds and ends. There was a chaotic heap of hats and gloves, cakes and biscuits, wraps and stockings, ink and parchment.

‘Oh! Meg!’ John huffed. ‘What? Ahh! Why are you so generous, my girl?’ he grouched, for there was no space on the bed for their love making.

‘I am sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I still have so much to sort. Still, that reminds me,’ she went on coquettishly, rocking in his arms, her fingers tracing a path along his taut muscles. ‘I have a present for you, my boy, if you care to open it now,’ she offered, her eyes dancing with impishness.

It was true, Margaret had a present for John, a personal one crafted by her own hands. It was a handkerchief made of cotton from his mill. It was dyed in his favourite colour, a sort of bluey-green that matched her eyes, and around the edges, she had embroidered his initials and that of his family members.

John grinned. ‘Oh, aye? And where is this present?’ he enquired; his eyebrows quirked.

Margaret simply shook her head and bit her bottom lip teasingly, something she knew made him wild. She would not tell him where it was, for she had concealed it, and she had secreted it on her person rather discreetly, but in a place that was anything but discreet. She had taken a length of silken ribbon and tucked the handkerchief around it. After that, she had then tied the band around a part of her, somewhere hidden, somewhere high, somewhere hot to the touch.

‘I am not telling you,’ she taunted. ‘You shall have to find it,’ she maintained, her eyes fluttering up and down her body, indicating where he should commence his search.

John threw his head back and moaned with an overwhelming feeling of fervour that coursed through his red-blooded veins. This sensational woman, his treasure and his torment, she was too tantalising to endure. As he stalked towards her, Margaret found herself retreating, until her back hit the wall behind her, cornering her in his trap. At last, he was standing next to her, towering over her, pressing his body close against her own. Then, with one powerful movement, John reached under her skirts, grabbed her legs, and hoisted her into the air.

Margaret took a sharp intake of breath and clamped her legs around him, her nails clawing through his thick head of hair. Holding her up against the wall, John let his hand begin to sweep across her figure, his eyes searching her for any clue as to where she had concealed his surprise. But at last, his fingers brushed against something and he chuckled darkly.

‘Now, how did you know I would look there?’ he breathed; his breath ragged with lust.

Margaret shrugged. ‘A wife’s intuition, it is your favourite place in all the world after all!’

John kissed her and then began to impatiently rearrange her skirts, so that he could settle himself more stably between her open legs.

‘We had better not be long,’ Margaret advised. ‘They will be here soon.’

‘Quick it is,’ he consented. Then, with his hand moving to his trousers, he snarled like a ravenous wolf. ‘Right then, wife, let’s spill this cherry’s sweet juices all over your husband.’ 

And with that, their mouths crashed together and for the next ten minutes and fifteen seconds, John and Margaret Thornton had themselves a very merry, cherry, Christmas.


End file.
